


Drones

by Ahnyo



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Dark, Gen, Partial Novelization, Science Fiction, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahnyo/pseuds/Ahnyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced Mechon: colossal, nigh invulnerable machines designed to bring about the destruction of Bionis. The secret behind their power lies in the blood flowing through their synthetic veins, and the Homs pilots controlling them from inside—but what could convince a Homs to turn his back on the world he once called home and swear fealty to Mechonis? Egil had a number of methods at his disposal, some more effective than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mercy, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I, uh, had another change of plans. Oops? See, I got a little carried away writing Mumkhar's account of the prologue cutscenes, and I decided I ought to make him a main character alongside Xord and tell his whole story up until his death. But then I realized that I'd have to involve Face Nemesis, and in that case, I might as well just write about Jade Face as well (especially since Gadolt appears during Xord's attack on Colony 6). So basically, _Drones_ is going to be about *all* of the Faces now, and there will be a total of twenty chapters (two for each song). I just can't ever keep things simple.  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Help me_   
>  _I've fallen on the inside_   
>  _I tried to change the game_   
>  _I tried to infiltrate_   
>  _But now I'm losing_

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

The sound rang out like a hammer against molten iron, forging visions in its wake. With his eyes closed, Xord could feel the warmth of the furnace and taste the bitter smoke on his lips. He drew his once-calloused fingers together and moved his arm in time with the noise, finding comfort in its rhythm. Xord could picture sparks leaping up from his anvil and flickering in the air like burning red eyes; then, they were gone. 

_Gone_ —just like those last few glimpses of the life he had left behind. 

He blinked—slowly at first, and then rapidly—but his sight wouldn't adjust. His sense of proprioception had been suppressed as well; he was numb from the neck down, and though he could tell his body was there, it didn't feel like it was part of him. Xord brought his phantom hand to his face and jerked backwards when his fingers, skeletal and cold, stroked his cheek. His skull smacked against a solid wall of metal, causing his eardrums to buzz in disharmony with the unending mechanical clanging. 

Panicking, Xord attempted to feel out the remaining walls of his cage. His arms flailed around in empty space, yet something was keeping his legs from moving. Every time his knees smashed against the barrier, he heard that harsh, pounding noise with which he was so familiar. Deprived of all other senses, Xord could only discern that he was surrounded by metal, and that _he_ was metal as well. 

Memories came rushing back to him in a staggering blow. This time, the visions that proliferated in his mind were disturbing: Mechon swarming the battlefield in droves, bodies of slain soldiers littering the ground, blood-curdling shrieks reverberating off the walls of Sword Valley. Amidst all the terror, Xord remembered what he had been fighting for. 

  


Xord stood among the militia, gripping his weapon—a war hammer he had forged himself—with sweaty palms. This hammer was not at all like the one he used to shape metal: it was designed to destroy rather than create. As a blacksmith, Xord regularly handled weapons and had an extensive knowledge of how they worked. However, this was going to be his first time wielding one in battle. 

Xord was a civilian and had no ties to the Defense Force. They didn't even purchase any weapons from him: the urgency of war demanded mass production. Xord saw this as a threat to his craft, but the meticulous work he put into his wares still managed to attract a fair amount of hobbyists and collectors. 

He studied the faces of the soldiers around him and was able to pick out the career Defense Force members with ease: they were stoic and their expressions displayed not even a hint of emotion. Though they were Homs, their dispositions more closely resembled the Mechon they would soon be meeting in combat. They had either been desensitized to the brutality of war, or trained to expertly disguise all traces of fear. Perhaps they thought of the looming confrontation as just another day of work. 

With the Mechon situation growing direr and direr each day, Xord had taken it upon himself to enlist in the militia.. He had someone to protect: Désirée was almost twenty years old—old enough to fend for herself—but she was still Xord's little girl. She meant the world to him, and if he lost her, he’d have nothing left to live for. 

Xord's wife had passed away when Désirée was a mere infant, and having to raise and provide for his new daughter on his own was the only thing that had kept Xord from sinking into a deep depression. He had to keep being strong for Désirée. Xord couldn't imagine having the strength to lift his hammer another day if he knew he’d never be able to see his daughter’s smile again. 

Life was a fragile thing: his wife's untimely passing had shown this to Xord firsthand. It could take only seconds for someone he loved to be ripped away from him. Xord swore he would do everything in his ability to prevent something similar from happening to Désirée, even if it meant he would have to die instead. 

It had been easy for Xord to make that promise in the safety of his forge, when the threat of war was far off in the distance. The weight of his commitment had only become real to him once the anticipation of battle lurched into his heart. Xord could feel fear emanating from the draftees around him. It was contagious fear—fear that gripped his entire body and made him turn to stone. 

With sweat collecting on his brow, Xord searched again for the Defense Force soldiers. There they were: straight backed, poker faced, giving off a subtle air of readiness that was drowned out by the others' fear. They may have looked like machines, but Xord knew each and every one of them had something they wanted to protect. That was what gave them their strength. Xord tried his best to attain that mindset, but his concentration broke when the first Mechon units arrived on the battlefield. 

They banded together, forming something like an ominous parade. Tiny, spider-like machines skittered at the front line, followed by bipedal units with weapons for limbs. The Homs troops charged, their shouts rising above the grinding of machinery. In that moment, it seemed as though the militia would stand a chance—but Xord's optimism didn't last for long. 

Gunshots rang out, but the bullets harmlessly ricocheted off of the Mechons' metal armor. The soldiers wielding swords and axes weren't able to put a dent in them, either. The militia's morale was decimated when battle cries began to turn into screams. 

The world moved in slow motion as Xord tried to process everything that was going on around him. Never before had he been exposed to a display of such unadulterated horror. Soldiers darted past him like he wasn't even there; seconds later, Xord watched their broken bodies slump to the ground. Fallen Defense Force members lay among draftees, their efforts equally ineffective against the invincible machines. Some attempted to flee the battlefield, only to be snatched up by Mechon lying in wait. 

Everything was going horribly wrong. This made Xord aware of how his own life was just as fragile as his wife's and Désirée's. He didn't want to admit that he didn't have what it would take to protect his daughter, at least in these circumstances. Xord had his limits: though he had considerable upper body strength, he was middle-aged and out of shape. If the Defense Force hadn't been so desperate for volunteers, he would have never been allowed to set foot on the battlefield. 

Though Xord had been too haughty to realize these things about himself, his daughter was much more in tune with his vulnerabilities. A teary-eyed Désirée had clung to him in the doorway, begging him not to go. Xord had dismissed her concerns and assured her that he would come back alive—another promise he would be unable to fulfill. Xord's blood turned to ice at the thought of Désirée receiving the news of her father's death. What had he been thinking? His daughter needed him just as much as he needed her, and it was selfish of him to leave her so early. 

There was no turning back now, though. Xord had committed himself to this fate. All he could do was try his hardest not to let Désirée down. The memory of her smile brought Xord back to the present, and her sweet voice carried him into the fray. He locked onto a bipedal Mechon that had strayed from its brethren and aimed at its legs in hopes of toppling it. However, he swung too early and whiffed. Alerted to his presence, the Mechon turned and lashed out at his arm. The war hammer flew out of Xord's grasp and landed in the dirt several feet away. 

It was over. 

Xord gaped, dumbfounded, as the Mechon clenched and unclenched its claws. His visions of Désirée faded as the unit latched onto his torso and dragged him away. 

  


“Désirée!” Xord wailed, thrashing violently. Somehow, someway, he was alive— _buried_ alive. He needed to get out and let Désirée know. He pounded his fists, still numb, against the wall and bellowed at the top of his lungs. Xord knew _someone_ was out there, producing the clanging noise that continued as he struggled—but they couldn’t hear him, or perhaps they didn’t want to. 

Panting, Xord let his arms slump to his sides. He became aware of his heart's rhythmic thrumming and the blood shooting up his veins, though he still couldn’t feel the rest of his body. His pulse was driving his blood out of his arteries and into foreign channels, causing him to grow colder and weaker with every heartbeat. His heart pumped harder to compensate for the loss, but it was in vain. Every movement and every breath was a struggle. Xord clung to his consciousness for dear life. 

All of his blood exploded back into his body at once. His veins dilated, engorging his gaunt, drained face. Xord was afraid it would burst from the pressure. Going from one extreme to the other caused him to dissociate. His soul exited his body and rose above him; then, suddenly, Xord could see. His field of view was tinted red, as though his eyes had soaked up some of the blood. 

Xord's entire body throbbed as blood flowed in and out. It was like he had become the heart of some greater organism. He stirred, and everything around him moved and creaked. The noise was terrible, like the sound of a building on the verge of collapse. Xord panicked and willed his soul to return, but it remained suspended high above his body. He staggered and his vision sloped to the side. The structure moved with him, shaken by an earthquake with an epicenter in his brain. He and the building were one. 

Xord almost didn't hear the whir of the crane over the blood rushing through his ears. He tracked its movement with his eyes, grateful for the distraction. Dangling from the crane was a ventilated container, which it gently set on the floor before veering away. A door swung open on rusted hinges and a timid Ponio foal stepped out. It froze at the sight of Xord, ears pricked and tail tucked between its legs. 

Xord stared back vacantly. His eyes flitted about the animal, but his vision had become disconnected from his brain. Xord didn't question why the Ponio had been put there, nor did he even register what exactly it was that he was looking at. His mind was active, but not in a way he could understand. It just felt like his head was full of static. 

In spite of this, Xord was able to feel some semblance of kinship with the Ponio—after all, they were both animals that had been displaced from their habitats and relocated somewhere strange. Neither of them moved for a long while. Then, Xord picked up the scent of ether. It was curiously potent: Xord could detect something invigorating intermixed with the odors of dust and earth. His instincts were roused from their dormancy like sharks drawn to blood in the water. 

The Ponio scampered the instant Xord stirred, nearly knocking itself off its feet. Xord's awareness suddenly breached from the disorder in his mind, catching onto what was about to go down in a heartbeat. He pleaded with himself to stop, but his judgment was powerless before the primal component of his brain. 

The Ponio's speed was easily outmatched by the massiveness of Xord's form. He plucked it off the ground with one decisive snatch and crushed it in his grip. Xord had no choice but to watch in horror as he brought the squealing creature toward his face. He could see only the fear in the Ponio's black eyes; to him, the mechanical hand wrapped around it was invisible. The aroma of the Ponio's ether crept through the slats in his metal chassis, even stronger than before. Xord's mind was rife with conflict: his actions scared and confused him, but he was so very, _very_ hungry. 

A pair of wide panels on his chest popped open, revealing a serrated grate. Xord flung the Ponio into the air. The creature tossed violently until it hit his chest, causing the panels to shut like a mousetrap. Electricity rippled from Xord's thoracic jaws as he chewed, breaking the foal's body down into a slurry of blood and ether. The liquid oozed through the grate and dripped into his core. Once the carcass had been drained of substance, Xord spat it out. A charred mass of skin and splintered bones slid out from his maw and fell to the floor. 

Xord sputtered as he looked over the Ponio's unrecognizable remains. _He_ had done that. It was a stark contrast to what he had been capable of before: during the Battle of Sword Valley, he hadn't managed to lay a scratch on a single Mechon. He wanted to believe that he hadn't been responsible for mangling the poor animal, yet part of him was satisfied with his kill. The ether churned inside of him, giving him a pinch of rejuvenating energy. It also fueled his appetite and made him hunger for more—but more was not to be found. As Xord's hunger grew, so did his disgust with himself. He wanted to run from the horrible thing he had become. 

“No,” Xord choked. He tried not to think about the Ponio, but the stench of death wouldn't let him forget what he had done. He needed to get away. Xord surged forward, only for his chest to collide with a glass-like barrier. As he registered what had happened, Xord caught a glimpse of something that rattled him to his core: his own reflection. 

His comparatively diminutive Homs body was nowhere to be seen; it was hidden inside a hulking metal behemoth. Its bulky, egg-shaped build was covered in bronze armor. Only its skull-like head, which had sunken red eyes, was bare. Long spines protruded from the sides of its jaw—not the jaws with which Xord had consumed the Ponio, but a smaller mouth reserved for speech. Its chest stuck out like the bow of a ship, and it had a spherical abdomen that ended in a turbine-like tail. Hanging over its back was a broad structure resembling a shell. A series of canals ran across the machine's exterior, carrying red fluid: Xord's blood. The mechanical vessel was not a mere vehicle to be piloted by Xord—it was an extension of his body; a perfect union of man and machine. 

Even though it didn't look like any model he'd ever seen, the sight of the Mechon made Xord relive the hopeless battle yet again. As soon as he recovered, he punched the glass with all his might. Like two titans locked in combat, the figures stood with their arms joined across the barrier. 

At last, Xord let his hand slide down the glass. His mechanical form rose and fell with his labored breaths as his eyes absently navigated his reflection. Xord's thoughts were beginning to condense into denial. “No,” he said again. All other words were useless to him. 

Xord watched his motions in the glass as he opened and closed his fist and weaved his fingers through the air. Somehow, his inflexible metal arm was trembling like flesh. The image disturbed Xord on a visceral level, and he couldn't help but moan in dread. His voice briefly escalated into a howl before dying away. 

Xord wanted to slam his head against the glass in an attempt to wake himself from what he wished was just a nightmare, but his shell's overhang got in his the way. He no longer had the energy to deny what he was seeing, and yet he couldn't bring himself to accept it. All he could do was sob as his thoughts fizzled into static once more. 


	2. Mercy, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Show me mercy_   
>  _From the killing machines_   
>  _Show me mercy_   
>  _Can someone rescue me?_

Time stopped flowing inside of Xord's cell. Every passing moment coalesced into a haze, and Xord could no longer tell seconds from minutes and minutes from hours. For all he knew, he might have been trapped in the enclosure for centuries—yet if he had been there for a mere heartbeat, it wouldn't have felt any different. His old life was an eternity away, and it felt fleeting compared to the one he was living now. Perhaps Xord had dreamt it all up to escape from his maddening desolation. 

His memories of his daughter were crystal clear, though, and there was no way his fatherly love could have been fabricated. Even in the midst of all the turmoil brewing in his brain, Xord's concern for Désirée hadn't abated. He had been cut off from learning the outcome of the battle, and it terrified him. Sword Valley formed a bridge between Bionis and Mechonis, making it the militia's last line of defense. If they had failed to rout the enemy, the Mechon would have been free to cross over and take occupation of Bionis. Then, no one would be safe—Désirée included. 

Xord froze up when he recalled his reflection. Nothing evoked familiarity quite like seeing one's self in a mirror; to Xord, seeking out that solace and finding something utterly wrong in its place had been traumatizing. The machine's ghastly eyes staring back at him was an image that would be forever burned into his mind. 

_He_ was a Mechon—that realization disturbed Xord more than anything else. He had been taken as a prisoner and trapped not only within a jail cell, but in a body born of Mechonis. Why had they done this to him? For that matter, _who_ had done this to him? There was not a soul around him to ask, and no answers to be found. Thinking about it only exacerbated the unrest that was building inside his head. Xord wished he didn't have to think at all. 

He beat his fists against the glass-like surface, but somehow it withstood his mechanical might. If he couldn't break through, Xord thought, maybe he would be able to topple the wall and take it out completely. It was worth a shot; it wasn't like there was anything else he could be doing. With no pain in his knuckles to insinuate futility, Xord's efforts were unyielding. He attacked erratically: sometimes he swung with frenetic abandon, and sometimes he invested all of his strength into colossal, concentrated blows. It didn't make a difference either way. 

At first, his hunger was tolerable—a mere suggestion in the backdrop of his mind—but the more Xord exerted himself, the more excruciating it became. That didn't stop him, though. His hunger simply drove him to desperation. He tried shoving the discarded Ponio carcass back into his maw to see if he could suck out any lingering traces of ether, but it had already been picked clean. Xord no longer felt bad about what he had done to the animal; he wasn't in the state of mind to think much about anything other than how hungry he was. He even forgot about Désirée, if only for a moment. 

“… Bronze Face.” 

Xord didn't flinch when he heard the voice. He dismissed it as a figment of his imagination, not unlike his recollections of the battle. His mind was just playing tricks on him and trying to taunt him with a false sense of hope. Even in his desperation, Xord wasn't going to let himself fall for that. He paid no attention to what the speaker was saying, only recognizing his voice as something distinct from the unending clanging that was droning on around him. It sounded real—could Xord truly be hearing it with his ears rather than his mind? He had been stranded in the darkness for an immeasurable span of time, though, leaving him susceptible to delusions. 

“Bronze Face, confirm that you are responsive. Do you read me?” 

Slowly, Xord lifted his head. The voice was coming from above him, making Xord fear that he was dissociating again and his consciousness would keep rising higher and higher until it was completely out of reach. Xord shook off his dizziness and looked up, tilting his head back at an impossible angle. He winced when his gaze landed on a man standing on what appeared to be an observation deck, though his fright was swiftly rerouted into a nervous kind of excitement. This excitement, however, gave way to his pent-up anger and confusion, which were assuaged by an undercurrent of joy. Xord moaned at the figure, overwhelmed by his oscillating emotions. 

The man dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I see the integration of your Core Unit was a success.” 

Xord was unable to process any of his words, making it seem as though he was speaking a foreign language. He didn't care. Knowing that he wasn't alone in his prison-like world filled Xord with euphoric relief. Even though he had plenty of reason to be suspicious of him, Xord found himself putting blind trust in the figure. There were so many things he wanted to say to him, but he was too exhausted to compose his thoughts into something intelligible. 

Xord began to ramble, his speech slurred almost to the point of incoherence. “Where—ahh, so hungry. You… did they… oh, please, I 'ave to eat!” He placed his metal palms against the wall of his enclosure. “W-what did they do to me? I—Désirée! I'm a… no, can't go on like this. Need food _now_.” Xord pummeled the glass and howled. His head was throbbing. “Help! You gotta help me!” 

“Calm yourself. Your questions will be answered in due time,” the man said, unstirred by Xord's distress. “Let us begin with your most pressing concern. I will see to it that you are refueled at one.” 

Xord was taken aback. Even though he still didn't know anything about the man, he was overcome with gratitude for him. He interpreted his declaration as a sort of peace offering—the man had to be there to help him. Xord felt like his trust was justified after all. 

He cocked his head. “F-food?” Xord breathed. “Really? You're really gonna…?” Asking the man who he was and why he was there didn't cross Xord's mind. Questions like those could wait. 

“Face Units require a vast quantity of ether. I have prepared your next “meal”, if it pleases you to think of it as such. It should keep you fueled for a long while. However, do not expect to become dependent on me for ether. You will be more than capable of acquiring it yourself once you are released.” 

Xord nodded with enthusiasm. He knew he would be fed sooner if he acted obedient, even if he wasn't actually listening. Indeed, he took in very little of what the man had said—Xord failed to catch the part where he'd implied his imprisonment would not last forever. 

The man produced a sort of light-based console and swept his hand across it, summoning an aerial Mechon worker with a freshly slaughtered Armu in its claws. It set the carcass in front of Xord and retreated over the wall. 

The intoxicating smell of ether drew Xord forward. The Armu was much larger than the Ponio foal—too large for him to cram into his chest and devour all at once. Xord grabbed onto its hind legs and tore it limb from limb, ripping through its sturdy hide as if it were made of tissue paper. He ate it piece by piece, breaking it down until there was nothing left but skin and bones. 

The weight of the ether in his tank calmed Xord and stilled his deluge of thoughts, but it also brought back his awareness. He stopped to inspect his blood-stained hands. “Why am I doing this?” he choked. Even though he hadn't killed the Armu himself, he felt just as guilty as he had after eating the Ponio. In either case, what he had done was inhuman. 

Xord's arms were trembling. His body moved against him and he reached for the remains like an addict itching for a fix. Xord stopped resisting. He could not reverse what had already been done, and there was no reason for him to fight his cravings when eating made him feel so good. It was also, as Xord had been quick to discover, necessary for maintaining his sanity. Accepting this didn't make him feel any less disgusted with himself, however. 

Once he had finished, Xord's gaze returned to the man watching him from the deck. He gaped in surprised at his metallic countenance, which was something he had been too lightheaded to notice before. “You're not a Homs!” he blurted, his voice amplified by his mechanical chassis. In a softer tone, he pressed, “What… what _are_ you?” 

“I am Egil, leader of Mechonis.” 

“Leader… Mechonis.” Xord strung together what little information he had been provided aloud. “So you're wif 'em, then. The _Mechon_.” 

“That I am,” said Egil. 

Xord's composure, or at least what was left of it, crumbled. With a thunderous roar, he resumed lashing out at the wall. “ _You_ did this—all of it! You were the one be'ind the attack on Sword Valley! You made me into this… this… _monster._ ” Each repetition of the word was punctuated with another blow: “Why, why, why, _why?_ ” 

“I did what was necessary. Such is the nature of war.” 

“Rubbish! How could any of this be necessary?” Xord snapped. “I reckon this must violate some sort of convention.” 

Egil shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I suppose you are right. My cause is greater than any statute or law.” 

Egil's cryptic responses were wearing on Xord's nerves, and he got the impression that he wasn't going to be able to get any straight answers out of him. He stopped attacking and forced out a laugh. “Gimme a break. I'll make you regret turning me into this pile o' junk, Egil. I'll crush you just like I crushed those bloody animals!” 

“There are defenses in place to prevent anything of the sort. You cannot hope to defy me.” The only thing standing between Xord and Egil was the indestructible glass-like barrier. It frustrated Xord to no end that his captor appeared to be within reach, yet he was powerless to harm him. Egil continued, “Surrender, Bronze Face. You took your chances in Sword Valley, and you lost. Now, you will swear fealty only to Mechonis.” 

“I'd sooner be dead!” 

“Would you?” 

Xord was caught off guard by Egil's retort. It invoked the memory of what he'd believed were his final moments, and how he still hadn't come to terms with his mortality. Above anything else, Xord wanted to stay alive so he could keep fighting for his daughter's sake. Even though he'd imprisoned him and turned him into a Mechon, Egil had effectively saved Xord from death. Should he have been thankful for that? Xord realized that even in this most detestable state, he didn't want to die. As long as Désirée was still there for him to protect, he had reason to continue living. 

_I'll find a way out of_ _this_ , Xord pledged. If everything fell in his favor, perhaps his new form and connection to Mechonis would even allow him to sabotage the enemy from within. The Mechons' leader was tantalizingly close. If Xord managed to find and exploit some vulnerability in Egil's defenses, he could personally bring about his annihilation. The prospect filled Xord with newly found strength—strength even more potent than that which ether could provide. 

Egil said, “All living beings are at the behest of an innate desire to survive. What's more, I have enhanced the survival instincts bound to your Face Unit. They are intertwined with your compliance, much the same as how your Core and Face Units are interdependent on each other.” 

Xord had to go back to playing along. “That why I've been so damn hungry?” 

“Indeed. I will only administer rations of ether if you show deference. If not, you will writhe until you cave to your instincts,” Egil explained. “But this is not what I desire. My cause demands willful participation. I accept that this would not be feasible without a degree of coercion, however. After all, it is in Homs' nature to be diametrically opposed to beings of Mechonis. Your self-preservation mechanism will lend itself to opening your mind.” 

“I see,” Xord said, even though he didn't. 

“Most excellent. Heed my command, and I will lift some of your restraints.” He paused to think. “There is one with whom I wish for you to be acquainted. His condition is similar to yours, although he has already aligned himself with my interests. Seeing the extent of his freedom may inspire you to do the same.” 

Under his breath, Xord muttered, “ _Goody_. Just who I wanna meet: a mechanical yes man.” 

Even though Xord was sure he'd been too quiet for him to hear, Egil knit his brows in scorn. “I will return shortly.” He spun on his heel and exited the observation deck, and Xord tracked him down the corridor with his binocular eyes until he finally disappeared from sight. 

  


The Mechon hovered into Xord's enclosure like a silent fighter jet, its body folded in a compact, aerodynamic shape. Even though Xord had been anticipating a visitor, something about its appearance triggered his fight or flight response and he stood with his fists at the ready. 

Though it stood twice as tall as Xord, this Mechon's physique was notably sleeker. Its appearance was skeletal; the likeness was reinforced by its skull-like head, whose features were sharper and more menacing than Xord's. The Mechon's armor was matte black with shiny gold accents, and it was bedecked with the same blood-bearing circuitry that ran across Xord's exterior. Its chest, which resembled an exposed rib cage, was connected to its abdomen by a spine-like column. Its abdomen was nested in an upside-down arch, which also served as a base for its engine-like tail—another feature it shared with Xord. An ether cannon towered over its head, and spanning its back was a U-shaped set of wings. In place of fingers, the Mechon had frightfully long claws. 

It spoke. “Hey! That's no way to treat a guest!” Its limbs popped out like a turtle's and it landed an uncomfortably close distance away from Xord. Xord had to crane his neck to look it in the eye. “You lookin' to start a fight? As much as I'd love to crush ya like a tin can, I don't think ol' Egghead would be very happy if I wrecked his new pet project.” It glanced over his shoulder at the observation deck. 

Egil, who was standing with his arms crossed, gave a stern nod. “Bronze Face,” he said, “this is Metal Face. He was the first Faced Mechon to survive the conversion process. You, Bronze Face, were the second.” 

Metal Face quipped, “I feel like my name makes that a given. You weren't really thinking ahead, were ya? This bloke's got a metal face, too. Ain't anything unique about that!” 

Xord was curious. “Now, what's all this “Face” business about?” No longer feeling threatened by Metal Face, Xord let his arms hang at his sides. There was still something he didn't quite like about him, though. 

“Why, it's what makes us _special!_ No other Mechon have faces, don't you know,” Metal Face remarked. “It sorta distracts from how we're also the only Mechon that're half-Homs and half-dead, but that wouldn't make for a very catchy name, would it?” 

Xord looked toward Egil in search of a less facetious answer, but to his surprise, he had disappeared from the observation deck. Shrugging, Xord turned to Metal Face and asked a different question. “You said we're still half-Homs?” He had gotten the sense that his body was somewhere deep inside his mechanical vessel, though he'd dismissed it as a sort of phantom sensation. 

“Well… that might be a little generous. It all depends on what went down during, heh, shipping and handling.” Metal Face dropped his gaze to the floor. “Most of my fleshy bits were lost in transit. Guess Egil was too much of a cheapskate to have me delivered first class.” He continued, “You can see for yourself just how badly those Mechon bungled things up. Come on out and stretch your legs! … If you still have 'em.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

Xord was answered by a whirring noise. Metal Face slumped onto his knees and his chest peeled open, revealing a ratty looking man clad in intricate blue and gold armor. He had unkempt brown hair and sunken eyes, and upon further inspection, Xord realized he wasn't actually _wearing_ armor: the “armor” was his _body!_ Like the Mechon he piloted, the man had an exposed spine; otherwise, his abdominal cavity was hollow. His limbs were attached with ball-and-socket joints, and ironically, his face was the only part of him that didn't appear to be made of metal. 

The man climbed out of the machine and pounced onto the floor. “S'pose you should call me _Mumkhar_ now. Feels like it's been forever since I went by that name.” Noticing that Xord's jaw had dropped, Mumkhar said, “What? Didn't Egil tell you about this?” He looked again to the observation deck, only then realizing that Egil wasn't there. “Huh. Must've had something important to attend to. Weird of him to leave us unsupervised like this,” Mumkhar murmured in a voice that was anything but confident. 

Xord stared at Mumkhar in incredulity. “H-how did you…?” 

Mumkhar heaved his shoulders, causing them to smash against a pair of arch-like attachments with a loud _clang_. Cupping his hands over his ears, he said in frustration, “I dunno! Same way you do any other old thing.” He suggested, “Just close your eyes and say _open sesame_.” 

The concept was foreign to Xord. Up until now, he had only attempted to do things that would have been possible in his normal Homs body. Trying to conceive of something as abstract as willing his chest to open left him momentarily baffled. He gave it a shot nonetheless, and sure enough, his vessel's chest panels slid apart like the doors of an elevator. Nothing changed, though: Xord's vision still lay in the Mechon's head, and his Core Unit remained in an unmoving stasis. 

“There you are! Now break the connection,” urged Mumkhar. 

Xord, though not entirely sure what he was being asked to do, obliged. He felt the weight of the whole world come rocketing into his body—not the hulking mechanical one he was just beginning to accept as his own, but his true self which he was sure had been compromised. A rush of blood filled his veins, but instead of being whisked away in the machine's synthetic circulation, it remained in his Core Unit. Xord's consciousness descended and settled in his own head. He could see in color once more: the world was no longer veiled in a garish red filter, which made the dreariness of his surroundings truly sink in. 

He realized a tad too late that he hadn't properly prepared to dismount. Whereas Mumkhar had had the foresight to make his Face Unit kneel, Xord had left his standing at its full height. While Bronze Face wasn't nearly as tall as Metal Face, it was still a long way down from its chest. Xord sucked in a breath—which made it halfway down his windpipe before whistling out of his neck—and clambered out of the cockpit. He attempted to lower himself onto the Mechon's abdomen, but lost his footing and hit the ground hard on his knees. 

He didn't feel any pain. 

Xord looked himself over in shock. His legs were covered in—no, _made of_ —immaculately crafted brown and gold armor. His kneecaps, which would have shattered like glass if they were bone, were in perfect condition. Xord inspected his mechanical hands, recalling how he had felt them against his face prior to his integration, and ran them over his body. Like Mumkhar's, it was made entirely out of metal aside from his head. Egil had found a way to corrupt even his Homs form into something of Mechonis. Only Xord's identity was immutable. 

After hazarding another adverse look at Mumkhar's naked spine, Xord, fearing the worst, checked his own abdomen. It was empty as well. All of his internal organs—his intestines, his liver, even his stomach—had been scooped out, leaving nothing but an artificial spine with neatly stacked gold vertebrae. 

“Oof! Doesn't look like you lucked out any better than I did," Mumkhar said. "But at least the worst of it's behind us now. We both got _a head!_ ” 

Xord wasn't amused. He couldn't look away from the void at the center of his body. 

“Pretty freaky, huh?” Grinning, Mumkhar stuck his arm into his abdomen and clutched his spine. “Looky here!” He moved his hand up and down with exaggerated vigor. “Never woulda thought I'd be able to stroke my own coccyx.” 

Xord felt grievously ill. It didn't make much sense, considering he didn't have any organs. What made even less sense was how he still managed to experience unbearable hunger when he didn't even have a digestive system. Now that he thought about it, Xord's hunger had faded to nil after he'd detached himself from his Face Unit. Egil had assured him that the Armu would keep him going for a while, but that wasn't it. The pangs began to resurface, albeit very faintly, mere seconds after Xord had finished his meal. 

Then, Xord recalled something else Egil had mentioned: his heightened instincts and so-called self-preservation mechanism had been installed in his Face Unit. As long as Xord stayed outside of it, Egil was powerless to control him. It was foolproof. Egil still hadn't returned, leading Xord to wonder if he would have kept Mumkhar from teaching him how to dismount if he had been there. 

Wary of his new legs, Xord hauled himself over to the glass-like barrier in search of his reflection. This time, his stare wasn't returned by a monster. To his relief, he was greeted by his familiar, though slightly worse for wear, Homs features: his coarse, auburn hair and receding hairline; his warm, umber eyes; the beard he had grown in an effort to hide his flabby cheeks and chin. While Xord's metal body had been bestowed with the hefty build of his Homs form, Egil had had the decency to avoid recreating his rather prominent gut. If it weren't for the implications of his new appearance, Xord would have been delighted. 

Mumkhar's voice shook him from his admiration. Dissatisfied with Xord's indifference toward his attempts to perturb him, he'd decided to give up and change the subject. “So, what was your name before everything went to shite?” 

He had to think about it for a moment. It had been a long time since he'd last head it been said. “Xord,” he said at last. 

“Xord, you say? Why does that sound familiar?” His face wrinkled up as he lapsed into thought. “Xord, Xord, Xord. Where have I heard that name before…? Eh, it's no use. It's escaped me.” 

Xord didn't have a clue what he was talking about. He decided to raise another question of his own—something that had been bothering him for a while. He felt it was part of the reason why Mumkhar didn't bode well with him. “Egil said you gave in… that you surrendered yourself to… whatever the hell it is 'e wants to do wif us.” In an accusatory tone, Xord demanded, “ _Why?_ ” 

Mumkhar echoed his query with mocking intonation: “ _Why?_ ” He tapped his foot on the ground and gripped his armored chin in pretend rumination. “Y'know, that's a good question… or at least it would be if I had a _choice_.” 

Xord didn't get it. He remained persistent. “What kind o' Homs _are_ you? How could you… didn't ya 'ave a _family?_ ” His heart—if he still had one—flared at the thought of Désirée. 

Mumkhar let out a sigh. “You really are dense. I ain't a Homs anymore, and neither are you.” Behind him, Metal Face stirred. 

Xord cowered as the unmanned Face Unit approached, backing himself against the wall. How was it moving? Was Mumkhar controlling it somehow? 

Metal Face came to a halt, leaned forward, and set one of its hands on the floor. It bunched its claws together, forming a solid platform for Mumkhar to board. It carried him up to its torso and tipped its wrist, letting him slide into the cockpit. Xord caught one last glimpse of Mumkhar's sneer before he was swallowed by his Mechon's chest. 

Mumkhar flexed Metal Face's digits as he reintegrated himself, and then spoke: “Shouldn't have bothered telling ya my old name. Seems like it gave you the wrong idea.” The Mechon's spine curved as it reeled back and held up its arms, striking a fearsome pose. It gnashed its jaw out of sync with its speech as it hissed, “Mumkhar is _dead!_ I'm _Metal Face_ now!” 

“But… but…!” With Metal Face looming over him, Xord found it impossible to gather his wits. 

“And to answer your question,” Metal Face said, “Mumkhar's family is dead, too.” He hesitated. In a quiet voice, he added, “Actually, I guess I… _he_ had a couple of brothers. Brothers in arms, anyway.” 

“So you were a soldier, then,” Xord whispered. He couldn't help but imagine Mumkhar as one of the Defense Force members standing by his side in the militia. Xord raised his voice, forcing himself to take a stand against his towering adversary. “Better yet!” he boomed with renewed ferocity. “They were your brothers! _Yours!_ How could you turn your back on 'em and join sides with the enemy?” 

Metal Face suppressed a laugh. “It's not as hard as you might think.” 


	3. Psycho, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love, it will get you nowhere_   
>  _You're on your own_   
>  _Lost in the wild_   
>  _So come to me now_   
>  _I could use someone like you_   
>  _Someone who'll kill on my command_   
>  _And ask no questions_

The Battle of Sword Valley continued into the dead of night. Such was to be expected with an enemy not burdened by the necessity of sleep. 

At this stage in the game, the Bionis forces' odds of seizing victory seemed hopeless. There was talk about retreating, though in all the chaos and confusion, it was unclear whether an order had been issued by a commanding officer or if it was just a rumor spread by some coward looking to escape. The militia had been reduced to a sobering fraction of its original size; only the most competent—or luckiest—soldiers remained on the battlefield. Meanwhile, the Mechons' numbers almost appeared to be _increasing_ , as though new combat units were being manufactured and released somewhere just out of sight. 

It took considerable effort to fell even a single Mechon, for their armor was composed of a material that could not be penetrated by any weapon. The gears and networks of wires that lay underneath were far more delicate, but those parts could only be reached if a Mechon were toppled and made prone. Given the size and strength of some units, such an undertaking often required collaboration—and as the Homs' numbers continued to dwindle, help was becoming harder and harder to find. 

However, the militia still had a secret weapon at their disposal: the Monado. 

It had come into the possession of a dashing man by the name of Dunban. Dunban had secured a commendable rank in the Defense Force, and his combative prowess was well-respected by his peers. By all odds, he appeared to be the perfect fit for the Monado. In fact, Dunban was one of the _only_ people who have proven himself capable of handling it. 

The Monado couldn't be used by just anyone. Though it was an inanimate weapon, it had an unwitting preference for warriors demonstrating a certain amount of heroism and skill. Those it deemed unworthy found themselves unable to control the blade, and in some cases, coming in contact with it resulted in bodily harm. Wielding the Monado was even beginning to take a number on Dunban's health, suggesting he might not have been as well suited for it as he'd believed. 

It also gave Mumkhar a pinch of hope that maybe _he_ was the one intended to wield it. He had no reason to believe this _wasn't_ the case; even though he and Dunban were close allies, Mumkhar hadn't gotten a chance to so much as lay a finger on the coveted blade. Dunban was so committed to making sure the Monado didn't fall into the wrong hands that he wasn't even willing to trust his own friends around it. Mumkhar was so insulted by this that he'd begun to resent him more than just a little. Still, he continued to pal around with Dunban in hopes that their connection would one day lend him an opportunity to get his mitts on the Monado. 

When Dunban arrived on the battlefield, Monado in hand, something changed in the air around him. He was like a catalyst; a volatile spark with the power to turn the tide in his favor and reel in the victory the people of Bionis so desperately needed. His presence alone commanded respect, but with everyone's attention glued on the enemy, he could only hope to revel in it after proving his worth. 

Calm and collected, Dunban assessed the war zone sprawling in front of him. He held up the Monado and its casing slid apart, revealing a saber of brilliant blue light. This was the Monado's true power. 

The Monado was not at all like a typical weapon forged from iron or steel: it had the unique power to circumvent the Mechons' otherwise impregnable defenses. The nature of the blade was a mystery, in part because Dunban was reluctant to surrender the Monado for research. It appeared to have a basis in ether; however, its attributes had never been recreated in gems refined from even the purest crystal samples. Curiously, while the Monado was devastating toward Mechon, it had no effect on the flesh of Homs. 

Dunban charged. He swung the Monado as he ran, effortlessly cutting down every Mechon in his path. The blade sliced through their armor as though it were thin air. Finding himself surrounded by a group of tall, bipedal units, Dunban took them out one by one before any of them had a chance to strike. 

With the Monado still wedged in a slain unit's carapace, Dunban took another quick survey of his surroundings. “They're advancing down our weak right flank,” he reported. He gave the Monado a twist, wrenching it deep into the Mechon's fragile inner workings. “For a bunch of soulless machines, they seem to know a thing or two… but we'll see.” 

Another horde of Mechon was advancing toward him. Confident as always, Dunban retrieved the Monado and hoisted it in front of him. In the distance, Mumkhar looked on from behind a heap of shrapnel as he dispatched the units with finesse. Mumkhar should no longer have been surprised by how easy it was for Dunban to lay waste to Mechon using the Monado, and yet he was still taken by awe every time. Watching Dunban fight also fueled his jealousy. Dunban hadn't the slightest idea how badly Mumkhar wanted the Monado for himself. 

Someone chuckled beside Mumkhar, pulling him from his thoughts. “That Dunban… he's a real lunatic, ain't he? He's gonna get himself killed if he keeps showing off like that.” 

“Dickson,” Mumkhar grumbled in annoyance, “Dunban has the _Monado_. He can do whatever the hell he wants without ever having to worry about any consequences. When you've got something like the Monado, there _are_ no consequences.” 

Dickson patted Mumkhar on the shoulder, causing him to glower. He couldn't stand when Dickson patronized him like that. Dickson said, “I wouldn't be so sure about that. Can't you see he's starting to slow down?” 

Mumkhar squinted. “Uh. _No?_ ” 

Dickson didn't care. “He oughta give it a break,” he continued. “Otherwise, pretty soon he's gonna find that he can't keep up anymore.” 

Mumkhar studied Dunban's movements more closely, watching for any sign that he was struggling. He seemed as deft and agile as he always did. Before Mumkhar had a chance to scoff at Dickson, Dunban stumbled. He managed to deliver a finishing blow to the last of the Mechon, but then one of his legs buckled underneath him. He limped over to a flipped, smoking truck and crouched in front of it while he waited to catch his breath. 

Mumkhar looked to Dickson, dumbfounded, only for him to return a knowing smile and nod. “ _Now_ d'ya see what I mean?” Dickson said, giving Mumkhar a light punch in the arm. 

He was too taken aback to notice. “But… _how?_ How is that possible? I saw everything! He scrapped all those Mechon so fast, they didn't even have time to attack!” 

“It's the Monado.” 

Mumkhar knit his brows. “What?” 

“You can't just go swinging it around all day like a violent idiot. That's when it starts to bite back,” Dickson said. “You'd think the Monado could tell when it's being abused. Might be why it's starting to reject Dunban.” 

“The hell are you going on about, old man? _Abused?_ That doesn't make any sense!” Mumkhar retorted. Bitterly, he added, “Dunban's a _hero_.” 

Though Mumkhar wouldn't admit it, Dunban was everything he aspired to be. He was a bit like a role model to him, except instead of inspiring him to do better, he just made Mumkhar want to _be_ him. He didn't just envy Dunban for wielding the Monado—he envied nearly every aspect of his life. Dunban seemed to overshadow him in every conceivable way: he was capable, he was handsome, and he was admired by most everyone. The image Mumkhar had of him in his mind didn't quite match up with reality, however. He had unconsciously elevated Dunban into an invincible icon, like a quixotic hero of legend. Mumkhar was just as blind to Dunban's inadequacies as Dunban was himself. 

Dickson shrugged. “Even a hero's gotta reach his limit eventually.” 

“What do y—” 

A soldier bolted past them, crying, “Retreat! Retreat!” 

Dickson said, “That's our cue to head back to Colony 6. Let's see if we can't get Dunban to join us.” 

“About time! This has all just been a bloody waste,” Mumkhar muttered, still mulling over what Dickson had meant. How could the Monado be hurting Dunban? Mumkhar was more willing to believe he had simply overexerted himself. 

He and Dickson got to their feet and made a run for the truck. “Dunban!” Dickson called as he threw himself down beside him. “We've been given the order to retreat. We're pulling back the line to Colony 6.” He flinched when an explosion rang out from behind the vehicle. “That's where we'll set up the last line of defense!” 

“Yeah. That's a good idea,” Dunban said. “Any more time spent hanging around here and we're done for.” 

Rattled by the explosion, Mumkhar shielded his face and glanced around in fear. He exclaimed, “Count me in! We've gotta get outta here.” He was impressed by how easy it had been to persuade Dunban to concede. It wasn't like him to run away, even when the odds were stacked against him. 

Dunban seemed to find inspiration in Mumkhar's cowardice. He whipped around. “Or,” he said, nearly cutting Mumkhar off, “we can stay and fight?” 

“ _What?_ ” Deep down, Mumkhar knew it had been too good to be true. Another explosion sounded. Mumkhar wished it would make Dunban realize how much of a fool he was being. 

Dunban brandished the Monado. “We may die if we take a stand here, but staying gives us a chance to change our destinies.” He boasted, “We have the _Monado_.” 

_No, you idiot,_ Mumkhar thought. _Only_ you _have the Monado. The rest of us_ _lot_ _are useless!_

“With this,” Dunban said, climbing onto the truck, “the future is ours for the taking!” 

Dickson flew up and grabbed his arm, yanking him down. “Stupid beast! Your body can't take any more of the Monado. I can tell by just looking at you!” 

“Getting shortsighted in your old age, Dickson? I'm fine. Don't worry, I'm still in control.” 

“I should've known I couldn't talk sense into a beast.” To Mumkhar's dismay, Dickson closed his eyes and backed off. He cocked his gun-blade, smiling. “Let's do this. I'm going with you!” Playfully, he added, “You'll need someone to drag your corpse back home.” 

Dunban mirrored his expression. “As long as you think you've still got the strength in you, old man.” 

Mumkhar sneered. How pathetic! Dunban's loathsome charisma had managed to sway even stubborn old Dickson. Mumkhar refused to let himself fall victim to it as well. While he wouldn't have been _too_ upset if Dunban—or even Dickson, for that matter—kept fighting and wound up dead, Mumkhar wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to save his own hide. “Oi, you two! We've been ordered to pull back!” he reminded them. “I'm leaving!” 

Dunban got in his face again. “Well, I say you're coming with us! 

Mumkhar's sneer evolved into a scowl. 

“What would we do without those?” Dunban motioned at Mumkhar's weapons: gauntlets fitted with long metal claws. Since Mumkhar's preferred fighting style was not the most conventional choice among members of the Defense Force, he'd had the gauntlets specially commissioned. They forced him to attack from an intimately close distance; despite his cowardly nature, there was something about being on the brink of danger that got a thrill out of Mumkhar. Maybe it was because he relished being able to see the fear on his enemies' faces right before he took them down. Mechon didn't actually have faces, though. 

_Probably just as much as you'll_ _be able to do_ _once I get my ass outta here_ , thought Mumkhar. His claws were good for spearing the chinks in Mechons' armor and scrambling their inner parts, but with the risk attached to his weapons and how hard it was to find an opening, Mumkhar was always hesitant to chip in. 

Nearby, a soldier wailed, “The enemy's second wave is approaching!” 

Mumkhar's heart sank. It seemed as though fate was on Dunban's side as well. Perhaps he truly _had_ used the Monado to change the future, or perhaps today just wasn't Mumkhar's day. 

“It's now or never, Dunban,” Dickson said. “Let's show them what we've got. We'll give them a warm Homs welcome!” 

Dunban dipped his head. “Acknowledged!” The two of them charged, leaving Mumkhar by himself beside the truck. 

“What're they trying to prove?” he muttered to himself. “I'm not throwing my life away! No point dying in some godforsaken field. Nothing for it.” Mumkhar could heed the orders to retreat on his own, but it would be dangerous to try to abscond without someone covering his back. “I'll have to use Dunban as a decoy,” he decided. “That should give me time to escape.” With that, Mumkhar got up and raced to catch up with his burdensome allies. 

He found Dunban and Dickson sizing up an unsuspecting pair of bipedal units. Mumkhar's arrival, which was heralded with gasping and pounding footsteps, tipped the Mechon off to their presence. 

“Damn it!” Dickson spat. He fumbled with his gun-blade, unprepared. 

Dunban was more forgiving. “Mumkhar! I thought for sure that you turned tail and ran.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let's just get this over with.” Mumkhar shrank back as the Mechon began to approach. “H-hey! Enchant us already!” 

“Of course.” The Monado's blade turned purple, basking Mumkhar's and Dickson's weapons in a similar light. 

Mumkhar licked one of his glowing claws in anticipation. “ _Now_ we're talking!” 

Using an art known as Monado Enchant, Dunban could temporarily bestow others' weapons with the Monado's Mechon-rending capabilities. This was the closest Mumkhar had come to wielding the Monado, and it made him crave the full power of the blade even more. 

“Think we've got this one in the bag,” Dickson said, aiming his gun. A purple bullet whizzed out of the barrel and pierced one of the Mechon head-on. 

Mumkhar pounced at the opportunity to finish it off. “ _Hell-Hound!_ ” He lashed out with a flurry of swipes, stripping away the Mechon's armor and mangling its mechanical innards. 

Dunban took on the other unit by himself. “Monado… _Buster!_ ” The Monado's blade extended until it had more than doubled in size. Dunban hoisted it over his head and brought it down on the Mechon, cleaving it in half. 

Mumkhar wiped his gauntlets on his pants in an effort to clean the oil from his claws. “I guess that wasn't so b—” 

“Damn! Reinforcements!” Dickson yelled. A trio of smaller units appeared and formed a ring around them. 

“One for each of us,” said Dunban. He looked at Dickson, who had already begun to take aim, and then at the begrudging Mumkhar. He flicked the Monado at one of the units. “That one's all yours, Mumkhar. Think you can take it?” 

“You know damn well I can handle myself,” Mumkhar snapped. He noticed that the light was fading from his claws. The unit he'd been assigned lurched toward him, its blade-like appendages poised to strike. “Uh, Dunban? _Dunban!_ ” 

Dunban responded by leaping forward and slicing off the Mechon's arms. “Show some humility, Mumkhar! We're in this together. Teamwork is the key to our success!” 

_Quit_ _hogging all the glory,_ _then!_ While the others made short work of the remaining Mechon, Mumkhar hung back and looked for a chance to escape. Just when he thought he'd found an opening, even more Mechon appeared— _lots_ of them. “You've _got_ to be kidding!” 

Dickson examined the approaching horde. “It's their main force. Looks like the Mechon are hell-bent on taking us out.” 

“They'll have to be if they want to beat us. Now, let's even the odds a bit!” Dunban said. 

Dickson shot Mumkhar a quick glance over his shoulder. “You heard him.” 

Casting another Monado Enchant, Dunban exclaimed, “Dickson, Mumkhar. Let's do this!” 

Mumkhar watched as his claws lit up purple again. He didn't have much of a choice. With Dunban and Dickson at his sides, Mumkhar dashed into the fray. He began to stall once the others were preoccupied; he avoided initiating combat, only bothering to attack when he had no other choice. 

Mumkhar's attention was snared by the sound of an agonized groan. He traced the noise to a huge mound of dismantled Mechon shells. Standing on top of it was Dunban, his hunched form rising and falling with strained breathing. He was struggling to hold the Monado, and his body convulsed every time he tried to lift it up. Mumkhar couldn't believe his eyes. 

Suddenly, a Mechon emerged from the debris. It loomed over the oblivious Dunban, snapping its metal claws. 

Dickson came rushing over. “Dunban!” He threw himself on top of him, shielding him from the Mechon's blow. Dickson cried out in pain as its claws drilled into his back. Though wounded and prone, he managed to thrust his blade into the Mechon's core. Dickson let out an anguished roar as he got up and tackled the incapacitated unit, sending both of them over the edge of the pile. 

Even as explosions and gunfire continued to ring out in the distance, a sort of silence seemed to descend upon the battlefield. Mumkhar gazed vacantly at the mound until, at last, he heard Dickson's voice: “I ain't going down that easily!” Dickson crawled over the rubble, making his way toward Dunban. “Dunban! You all right?” 

He was sitting on the uppermost carapace, the Monado between his knees. “What does it look like?” He forced a smile. “I'm… still good to go.” 

Dunban was bluffing—even Mumkhar knew that. After reflecting on everything he'd just witnessed, he came to accept that Dickson had been right all along: Dunban _was_ losing his grip on the Monado, and sometimes his actions really _did_ have consequences. Dunban was brash to the point of stupidity. Mumkhar thought it was funny how _he'd_ been told off about not having humility when Dunban's overconfidence had nearly gotten Dickson killed. What kind of hero _was_ he? Mumkhar realized Dunban wasn't even a hero at all: in Mumkhar's story, he'd always been the villain. The Monado's rejection of Dunban was long overdue. 

Mumkhar was beginning to see that Dunban— _perfect, glorious Dunban_ —wasn't quite as infallible as he'd been led to believe. 

After letting a long, raspy laugh slither out of his throat, Mumkhar echoed, “Guess even a _hero's_ gotta reach his limit eventually.” He cast Dunban a contemptuous look; then, Mumkhar ran. 

Dunban and Dickson limped out from the debris, helping each other walk. When Mumkhar sprinted past them, Dunban cried, “Mumkhar! What are you doing? That way is—” 

Mumkhar stopped and spun on his heel. “Sorry, brothers! Hate to drop this on you, but it's the _Monado_ they're after… so have fun keeping 'em occupied for me!” He grinned. “I'm getting the hell outta here!” 

Dickson narrowed his eyes and growled, “Mumkhar, you dirty…” 

“Don't worry—I'll organize your funerals!” Mumkhar gave them a quick, duplicitous wave. Before he took off again, Mumkhar bid his allies—or rather, his _former_ allies—one last goodbye: “Well… see ya, boys!” 

“Wait!” shouted Dunban, but it was too late: Mumkhar had vanished from sight. 

Still grinning, Mumkhar swung his arms as he barreled down the narrow tract of Sword Valley. He should have known to keep a low profile, but after finally freeing himself from his baggage, he was emboldened to the point of recklessness. Whether he was aware of it or not, Mumkhar was at the whim of the same kind of overconfidence he despised in Dunban—something that was made even more obvious by his sudden change of plans. 

“Those idiots,” he said, panting. “I'll just come and get the Monado when everything's quietened down a bit.” 

Now that Dunban no longer had what it took to wield the Monado, Mumkhar had the perfect opportunity to step up and take his place. Unlike Dunban, Mumkhar was a _true_ hero—a hero who actually knew how to withdraw when things weren't going to plan. He'd be sure to put the Monado to good use, or at least he'd make better use of it than Dunban ever did. Already, Mumkhar could picture the disowned Monado being magnetically drawn to him and what he prided as his _astronomical_ amount of honor. 

Scaling a mound of earth, Mumkhar declared, “That thing's gonna be m—” He yowled as he lost his footing and rolled onto the ground. Grunting and moaning, Mumkhar slowly pulled himself up. A red dot flickered onto his forehead, and by the time he realized what it was, Mumkhar was caught in a cat's cradle of lasers. 

“Oh no! Please!” he begged in horror. The last thing Mumkhar saw before he was blown away was a towering fortress wall: something that would have prevented his escape even if he hadn't been gunned down by Mechon snipers. That wall should have been the last thing Mumkhar _ever_ saw—but today just really, _really_ wasn't Mumkhar's day, so fate wasn't going to let him off that easy. 


End file.
